Kurt's alarm startled him awake, rousing him from the tatters of a very pleasant dream featuring Kitty. He sat up, glaring at his erection and his tail, the end of which was waving about as stiffly as his front. He stumbled to the shower, setting the tail to curl around him and satisfy the morning tension, while his hands were busy with his washing. Now his Engel was seducing his dreams…
He had tried to thank Joe, but his supervisor gruffly ordered him to get to work. He remembered, it was supposed to be 'no big deal'. He nodded his understanding, and Joe stopped scowling at him. He tempered his giddiness with the reminder of the kind of place this was.
Monday's practice had been routine, but on Tuesday, Trainer Combs kept popping in and out of the session. Kurt's nervousness spiked on Wednesday, the tension making his fur crackle with electricity. He went through the preliminaries, and Combs called him over.
"Hound, you are needed on a mission later this month. Major Hedrick has had enough dallying. You will be tested out at 150 lbs by Friday. Today, you'll make 140. To encourage your performance, we've changed the weaponry around here. No more paintballs." He lifted a pistol that looked extremely real.
"This holds rubber bullets, and so do the auto guns." He fired at the floor, and the rubber projectile twanged off the deck and off the far wall before losing its momentum. "We're going to try a bit of extra 'motivation' on you. These will leave painful bruises, so if you hesitate too long during the test, you will get a warning shot nearby, then we'll shoot to hit you. Go to your mark and pick up your weight."
Kurt picked up the bag easily, as sweat wicked along his exposed fur to help cool him. His physical strength had long exceeded his porting abilities, but it seemed that would soon change. Bamf. He took it across, wincing in pain at the difficulty. He returned, and a dull ache started to form behind his eyes. He shook his head and ported once more; half way done. Taking a deep breath, he crossed again, giving a soft moan as the pain sharpened. He could do a 10-pound increase over a month, but inside of a week?
Combs started to draw a bead on him, and he went again… or tried to. Wuff… The cloud of his teleportation began to form, and then faded. Kurt breathed hard, staring at Combs as the man pinged a bullet off the deck inches from him. Fear spiked in him, and he got across. A groan marked his arrival, and he almost dropped his weight. One more time…
His vision swam and he tried to port, finding his focus impossible to summon. The rubber bullet from Brestin whined off the floor. Combs aimed again, this time directly at his torso. He looked at the man, gasping in pain and exertion, silently pleading for mercy.
There was no mercy here. Combs fired dispassionately. The impact rocked Kurt backwards, his ribs protesting the blow. Brestin smirked, and aimed about a foot and a half lower. "Nein…" The gun fired, but Kurt wasn't there to receive the bullet. He appeared, mostly on his mark, and collapsed limply to the floor. It took awhile for him to awaken from his faint.
He felt shaky and nauseous, and they judged him not fit for anything else for the day. They told him to go to bed, and not go to work in the morning. He rested in fitful naps, separated by large meals. He wished more than anything that Kitty could be here to help him, as he had helped her. There was still most of the month to go until he could see her again. He survived by tucking the jumpsuit he'd worn to the Social under his pillow, for the faint smell of her that clung to it.
He reported to training Thursday, and performed as full an exercise set as he could. His reflexes were still a bit off, but the workout helped him to center. He was dismissed without any porting practice. The next day he was back to a full schedule. Friday's training was a repeat of Wednesday's, with the addition of a pistol with real bullets, and ten more pounds of weight. The early teleports seemed to go easier, more smoothly. He'd heard them speak of stress unlocking a new plateau of ability, and the last week seemed to have done that for him. He got through the first four ports quickly, and just avoided a warning shot on the fifth.
All his strength seemed to flow out of him. The last port was always the hardest. He flinched from the force of a rubber bullet on his chest. "Better move, Hound," Combs said. He lifted the live ammo pistol. Kurt ignored him, trying to find the concentration to port. The bullet grazed his arm, tearing a streak through suit, fur, and skin.
"The next one goes into your thigh. Don't be there." Kurt's eyes locked on his trigger finger. When it began to squeeze he harnessed his fear of the bullet into the momentary clarity needed for the teleport. He slumped down to his hands and knees, but he remained conscious.
"Alright. Now we're getting somewhere. The major would still like you up at 200 lbs, but that can wait for a bit. Skip your morning work shift tomorrow. On Monday, we begin your Mission training. You're done for now." He nodded gingerly and slowly went to change.
Kurt reported to training Monday, and repeated the oath. Ave Maria was his German prayer of choice for the day, as he countered the corrosion of the litany. It was harder to do than usual today, as his concentration was shaky. After the opening exercises, Combs called him over. "Your mission role this time won't be combat oriented, but in the future, it will be. Try these on." He handed him metal gloves.
He put on the gauntlets and looked at him. They were made for his hands; articulated metal plates on a leather base. The palms were left without plating, but the backs of his hands were covered with knobs of steel. At Comb's direction, he went after the punching boards. They crunched beneath his blows readily.
"Nice. They seem to fit well enough… okay, off with them. From now on, you'll wear this pouch on your working suit. Get used to it there at your waist. It'll carry special equipment that you'll be issued." Kurt strapped the pouch on at his waist.
"This is your mission commander," Combs said. "He'll be sharing in the training this week."
"Hound, you've been given a codename; Nightcrawler. This is a proud moment in your life as a Hound. You hear me?"
"Jawohl!" Nightcrawler, he thought. Isn't that a sort of worm? How very unflattering.
"The main equipment you'll learn this week will be your break-in kit, and the grapple. Your ability to climb walls will be useful, but primarily you will be making sure the team follows you to the target location. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." Breaking in? But to where?
"You'll be porting and climbing to spots on the approach, then deploying lines to allow the team to catch up. Once you've made the approach, you'll employ your kit to affect the actual entry. There are others on the team that can do it, but this is a skill we want you to learn. Now, this is a diamond tipped glasscutter. These are lock picks, with large handles to ensure you can grip them well. You'll also have a bulb of paint for cameras, oil for lubricating hinges, and wire cutters for alarms."
Kurt nodded, settling in to learn the devices. He learned about doors and windows, alarms and locks, and even safes. His hearing played a large part with the safes; the tumblers were easily audible to him.
The following week, he was excused from regular training. Instead he drilled with the mission team, learning layouts and floor plans. They practiced with the grapple and the transfers over horizontal and vertical distances. Kurt learned they were breaking into a New York skyscraper penthouse, and about the exact type of alarms and locks, the brand of safe, etc. Once entry was achieved, the team would complete the mission from there, but he was to obey any commands of the team leader.
Friday evening, Kurt was called to the mission room. The Shield flag was displayed, and he knelt and recited the oath. When he rose they put a collar on him. "This is an explosive collar, Hound. Should you try to flee or perform contrary to the interests of the mission, it will be triggered remotely and you will no longer have a neck. Am I understood?"
"Jawohl, sir." So much for his faint hope of escape.
"Get ready, and follow us…"
He put on his cat suit and his new equipment. Then they moved to the flight deck and took a transport to the New York City airport. The team boarded black vans, and Kurt was kept in the back where no one would see him. They drove into a parking lot under the target building and took an elevator to the roof.
Kurt had only moments to gaze at the beauty of the nighttime city. He was brought to the edge and shown where he was to port across to the building kitty-corner and down to them. He borrowed the night vision scope to get a firm lock, and handed it back. Shouldering the grapple, he ported across.
He sighted on them across the distance, and fired the soft grapple. They tied it off on their end, and he did the same on his. One by one they came across, joining him on the target building. The ledge they stood on went all the way around the building ledge. From here on up, the building was only half the length and depth of the public areas below them.
Taking a rope, he wall-walked up at the stone corner, trailing it behind him. The level he made next was a wide balcony that surrounded the private residence of the target. He tied off the rope, and began using the bulb of black paint to darken the camera lenses watching the doors. The rest of the team reached the balcony, and the leader signed for him to break in.
The locks on the sliding doors were extremely easy to open. One of the team oiled the tracks as he worked, and slid the doors open as soon as the locks gave. The leader kept him at the entry room while the agents fanned out throughout the house. Kurt heard silenced gunfire, and groaning noises of pain. A frightened man in nightclothes was shoved into the living room, and tied down to a chair. The commander injected him with something and they began to question him. The rest of the team gathered files and papers from the rest of the residence. Kurt smelled blood in the air. They had killed people, and he was the one who'd given them the access. He understood Kitty in a new way now.
The guilt was beginning to clench his stomach. From the questions they were asking, the man was publicly moderate about mutants and privately in favor of mutant rights. He was wealthy and influential, and Kurt knew he would also be dead before the night was out. Shield never tolerated dissent, and they were more than curious about who was in league with him.
The team commander told Kurt to come with him. They went into a well-appointed study with a massive oak desk with its drawers all opened, and fine leather furniture. A portrait leaned on the floor, exposing a safe on the wall. "I need quiet, please," Kurt said, and put his ear to the dull gray door. The practice on this model made it easy; he knew the exact sound the tumblers made when they locked into place. He got it open and was pushed out of the way as they rifled through the contents, discussing them. He crouched to the side and watched them impassively.
A faint noise got his attention, and he looked towards the desk. A coin of some sort rolled from underneath, on its edge, and a small hand reached from under the oak in an attempt to catch it, and was quickly withdrawn. A pair of eyes looked out from under the desk. It was a child, Kurt was sure; small enough to fit underneath, old enough to keep quiet. He stood and leaned over the commander as if he were interested in what he was doing. "Will you…!? Find someplace to sit down, Hound," the man said with irritation.
"Jawohl," Kurt said, and walked to where the coin had stopped rolling by the desk. He palmed it as he sat, holding it up behind the desk where they couldn't see his arm, so he could look at it. It was thick, with an ancient Greek helm in odd but bold colors on one side, and an ornate capital 'M' on the other. He had no idea of its importance, but he knew he wouldn't be giving it to the team.
The child peeked out at him. She was concealed to normal eyes, but she was plainly revealed to Kurt. His mouth curled into a slight smile that he quickly allowed to drop. She was glaring at him, and he locked eyes with her to show that he knew she was there. She put her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. A good part of his attention was spent watching the team as they studied the documents. He'd rather die than to betray her presence, so it was important that he didn't appear to be acting strange to them.
His tail moved to the back of the desk he sat near. One of the team gave him a quick glance, while he stared at the carpet as if he were bored. He made his tail move like a clumsy snake along the carpet, then rise up a little and wave at her with the tip. His concealed arm reached out and bopped it gently on the end, then shook a finger at it. The tail drooped, chastised.
He risked a glance at her and gave a tiny shrug, then grabbed the tail and pulled it over to him by hand, while the tail writhed quietly as if to get free. She covered her mouth again to keep from laughing. He let his tail go, and the tip swiveled back to him, poking him on the arm. He brushed at his arm, as if to shoo something away. The tail poked again, harder, and this time he looked at it. The tip angled up at his face, and then pointed broadly at the hand still holding the coin. He acted surprised that he still held it, and carefully laid it down within her reach behind the desk.
She snatched it up and tried to snap it in half, using all her strength in vain. She looked to be near tears, and shoved it back at him, pantomiming the breaking gesture, peering into his face. He picked it up, checking on the team, and tried to do it one handed. He couldn't, and he didn't dare try with both hands. He put the coin halfway into one of the snaffle clips on his uniform and used the leverage to break it in half.
It warmed in his hand briefly, and a faint odor of scorched circuits reached him. The pieces were matte black now, featureless. He put them on his tail end, and brought them to her on this surface. She took them and smiled at him, turning them over in her hand. She pointed back at the team, then at him, and shrugged a question. He tilted his chin up and scratched his neck fur just under the collar. His face was somber as he stared at his feet, but he could see her nod in understanding from the corner of his eye.
She pointed at his tail, and made a 'come here' gesture. He moved it over, and felt her touch it, petting the furry length of the end. She hugged it to her briefly, and he curled it around her and squeezed. Footsteps sounded in the hall, and he moved it away, gesturing for her to move fully under the desk. She did so, and he watched the agent report to the commander.
"Come on, Hound," the man said, and he joined them as they left the study. The target still sat in the chair, his throat cut and his chest covered with blood. Between his feet was a bomb set to go off in an hour. Kurt's gut clenched. His efforts to save the girl would be useless if she was still here when the bomb went off… Maybe she'd have the sense to leave when they were gone.
The team went out on the balcony into a light layer of overcast. He had thought the night would stay clear when they were outside earlier. They went down the rope and he untied it, and crawled down, coiling it up as he went. The motor pulleys got the team across to the other roof and he unfastened the near end of the thin grapple cable. They pulled it over to them, and he ported over to the launch building, as the clouds thickened, threatening rain.
He looked over to where they'd been, and thought he saw a red light bobbing on the balcony before he ducked into the helicopter that waited to take them to the airport. They took off in the transport just as dawn was breaking over the city. Through the windows of the plane he saw a bright flash as the top of the building exploded. He ducked his head and prayed fervently for the child's safety.
He ate a meal on the way back, and they left him alone. The deaths on his conscience pained him like a physical wound. Poor Kätzchen. How would she feel when they made her do the killing? Especially when it was a man like this, someone who might have been a friend, if not with them, but with their kind.
After they landed, they gave him an access card reserved for Hounds who'd done well on Missions. Then they dismissed him, as he wasn't needed for the debriefing. He took a hot bath, but he couldn't sleep. The souls of the dead haunted him. The little girl's eyes accused him of betrayal as she died in fire and violence in his imagination. His fingers rubbed together, wishing for his rosary…
In his kitchen he kept a ball of twine, and he unraveled a length nearly equal to his height. Folding it in half he found the middle of the string. He made a little loop of cord and tied it there. Then he made two more, smaller loops at the same point, but to the sides. One more little loop at the top and he looked at what he had. If he straightened out the loops, it resembled a little cross.
Then came the hard part. Up both lengths of the cord from the middle, he began a pattern of four small knots, and one larger. He had to untie them and start over on occasion, to make the sides even, but he kept at it until hunger forced him to stop. After he ate, he worked at it again until he had 24 knots total on each side of the center. He knotted the ends together and cut off the excess.
His hands ached from the tension and the careful control, but he had a little rosary now.
Kurt took it with him and entered the between space, then ported up the top. There he kneeled, giving proper prayers for the dead. He begged for the forgiveness of his sins, and for protection in this fell place. When he finished, he crouched in front of the vent and fingered his makeshift rosary, receiving comfort from the sheer familiarity of the ritual.
"Gegrüßet seist du, Maria, voll der Gnade, der Herr ist mit dir. Du bist gebenedeit unter den Frauen und gebenedeit ist die Frucht deines Leibes, Jesus... Heilige Maria, Mutter Gottes, bitte für uns Sünder jetzt und in der Stunde unseres Todes. Amen."
